


Diving Too Deep for Coins

by 27tattoos



Series: It Feels So Much Lighter [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Eating Disorders, M/M, Rehab, Self-Harm, Trigger Warnings!, anorexic!louis, cutter!Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2798447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27tattoos/pseuds/27tattoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis meets Harry in rehab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diving Too Deep for Coins

**Author's Note:**

> Title: flightless bird american mouth by iron&wine, which is such a lovely song :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own 1D duh, this is for kicks and giggles
> 
> Trigger Warnings!! This revolves around eating disorders and self-harm, so if that will be a problem please don’t read!! I’d rather you be safe than read this shit.
> 
> Um, I’ve never actually been in rehab before? I mostly based this on my sister’s experiences but obviously I’m not my sister so I apologize if some things don’t make sense, bc I have a tendency to be ridiculous. Feel free to correct anything, if you’d like.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Kudos/feedback is highly appreciated :)

Louis sits at the clean white table, a plate of sauce-smothered, giant meatballs and a cup of ice water in front of him. A supervisor is watching close by, to make sure that Louis finishes his entire meal, but the thing is, he’s not entirely sure he can do it. The sauce must be at least two hundred calories, considering the amount, and the meatballs are probably about hundred calories each. In total he’s looking at about seven hundred calories of greasy, acidic food and his stomach is stirring in protest at the thought.

Louis looks nervously over at the supervisor and his throat tightens when he realizes she’s watching him like a hawk. She points to the clock and holds up ten fingers. He’s got ten minutes to finish his food, or else face the consequences (consequences meaning feeding tube and a call home, and Louis’ mum is already disappointed enough in him). He turns back to the food and swallows dryly, picking up his fork in shaky fingers and stabbing one of the meatballs.

He raises it to his mouth but it stays only inches away from his lips – no matter how many times he tells himself that this is for the best, that by doing this he’ll make his mum proud, that this will help him in the long run, he can’t bring himself to put it into his mouth.

Louis feels tears welling up in the corners of his eyes as the fork stays in mid-air, his mouth wide open but the meatball not making it between his lips. He throws down the fork in frustration, is mentally preparing himself for the feeding tube and the tone of disappointment in his mother’s voice, when a voice breaks through the silence.

“It’s easier if you cut them into fours.”

Louis whips around, only to see a tall, gangly boy with wild curls and overfocused green eyes staring at him with an expression of complete apathy on his face. He’s wearing a green gown, which signifies that he’s one of the patients that are in here for the long haul. His features are worn, as if whittled down by exhaustion, and his eyebrows seem to be permanently pinched from worry. Louis looks down to his wrists – something you just notice at places like these – and discovers that the pale skin is absolutely covered in neat, thin slashes.

“Um –“ he stutters, looking for words, and the boy approaches him and sits cautiously down next to him.

“I’m Harry,” he says, holding out one of his giant hands. Louis takes it shyly and looks down, because the intensity emanating from the boy’s eyes is too much for his weak head.

“Louis,” he replies, and Harry nods.

“I said it’s easier if you cut them into fours,” Harry says, pointing to the untouched meatballs on Louis’ plate. Louis looks over at them and gulps, the sight of them making him want to claw his throat out with his fingernails.

Harry notices his hesitance and reaches for the fork, looking at Louis and prompting towards the plate to ask for permission. Louis nods and he takes the fork, splitting each of the meatballs into clean-cut fours.

“There,” Harry says. “Now the bites are small and easy to handle. You just count to three, put it in your mouth, chew, and swallow. Sometimes you take a drink if you need to.”

Louis looks at him in wonder, because he doesn’t seem like the type to be anorexic, recovering or not. Too muscular and well-built. But, you can never know at places like these, he figures. “Thank you,” Louis whispers, looking back to the plate of meatballs. They look a lot more manageable, now that they are cut down into small pieces.

Harry gives him a small smile and Louis shivers, because Harry’s smiles seem like they are rare, and hard to produce. Louis turns back to the plate, picking up the fork with newfound confidence and spearing one of the meatball quarters. He counts to three, just like Harry said, and shoves it into his mouth. His cheeks immediately flood with saliva and his throat is burning, begging Louis to spit the food out, but he screws his eyes shut and he chews until the meatball is pulverized. He swallows it down quickly, trying to not concentrate on the awful taste, but he gags.

Louis feels a hand patting on his back and he turns, Harry looking at him with concern replacing the indifference in his eyes. “Are you okay? I can stay here with you, if you like. For support.”

Louis nods and offers a weak smile, turning back to the plate and staring at the meatballs, glaring at them and telling himself, I can do this. He chokes down another quarter and takes a sip of ice water, and his skin prickles under the weight of Harry’s gaze.

“You know they have vegetarian options here, right?” Harry says quietly, and concentrated, like it’s taking extra effort for him to say the words. Louis understands where he’s coming from. It’s much easier to stay quiet than to force your thoughts out.

Louis nods sadly. He gestures forward, to where the supervisor is sitting with her stony eyes, and Harry’s flick to hers. “My supervisor and therapist say that I have to eat this. They say I have to get over the fear of meat.”

Harry shakes his head and his brow furrows again. “I don’t think that’s very nice. You shouldn’t have to eat meat if you don’t want to.”

Louis shrugs and puts another quarter in his mouth, chewing fast so he doesn’t have to taste too much. He’s only finished one meatball and he can already feel his stomach protesting, writhing and squeezing against itself.

Harry watches him and shakes his head. “Nothing’s very nice here, though, so.”

Harry stays with Louis the whole ten minutes, and with Harry’s support and gentle, encouraging words Louis manages to eat all but one of the meatballs. Louis looks over to his supervisor desperately, hoping his eyes convey the message that he’s finished, his stomach can’t take anymore, and she nods. She stands up and leaves the room, tapping away at an iPad she has in her hands. Louis wishes that she would smile more. He wishes that everyone here would smile a bit more. It would make everything a lot less scary.

Louis stands up to leave, maybe to go to the rec room for a while or just back to his own room to take a nap, but Harry grabs his hand. Louis flinches, because physical contact isn’t allowed here, but Harry grips his hand anyway.

“Stay, please?” Harry asks, and it’s with such hope that Louis immediately sits back down. “I like talking to you.”

Louis blushes and takes his hand away from Harry’s, tucking it into himself and crossing his legs. That’s one of his habits that his therapist says he has to work on. Whenever he gets anxious he starts to fold in on himself, which in turn only makes him more anxious. At least, that’s what the therapist says.

“What are you in here for? If you don’t mind me asking,” Harry asks, quietly, his eyes trailed on the floor as if he’s too afraid to meet Louis’ gaze.

Louis sighs. “Anorexia, if that wasn’t obvious. And anxiety. I’m recovering, though.” Louis pauses. “Hopefully,” he adds as an afterthought.

Harry hums and strokes a long, bony finger over the skin stretched tight over his funny bone. Louis never understood why they called it a funny bone. “How long have you been here?”

“Only two weeks,” Louis answers. “What about you?”

“Three months,” Harry supplies after a bit of silence, and Louis coughs quietly.

“Oh. I’m – sorry. Why are you in here, then?”

Harry sucks in a breath and holds out his wrist for Louis to see. “Self-harm. Obsessive thoughts. And partly anorexia too, but that’s mostly taken care of by now.”

Louis tries not to let his eyes linger too long on the orderly cuts, because it’s only polite, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the neatness of it all. All he can imagine is Harry holding a small razorblade, in sharp contrast with his big hands, carefully slicing each line with practiced ease, drawing out the blood with a relaxed sigh –

“Fuck,” Louis swears suddenly, and Harry’s eyes snap to him.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Louis winces. He scoots away from Harry, just the tiniest bit, so it’s not noticeable. But he needs space when he gets nervous.

Harry looks down disappointedly at his fumbling fingers, and Louis thinks he looks like that one painting by Pablo Picasso, the one with the hunched-over blue man clutching a guitar with sad fingers, all worry lines and paled skin and bruised eyes. That painting had always fascinated Louis. He remembers going to an art museum as a young boy for a field trip, and finding that painting and just staring with wide eyes, drinking in the emotion pouring from the colors and lines. He stared at it for so long that he got separated from his class and was missing for two hours. When his teacher finally found him and whacked him on the knuckles for wandering, he didn’t even mind.

“Would you like to go to the rec room with me?” Harry asks suddenly, shakily, nervously. Louis meets his eyes and he can see that the boy has pain, pain that won’t go away no matter how much blood he loses or how many therapy sessions he attends.

“Sure,” Louis replies, because this boy, this sad and tall and bruised boy, is the only friend he’s made his whole two weeks here.

Harry gives a small smile, so small that it can hardly be classified as a smile but Louis knows. They both stand up and Harry walks to the rec room like it’s second nature, which, it probably is. As they walk and the movement ruffles the gown covering Harry, Louis notices that his knees are also covered in tiny little nicks. He feels like crying.

Harry seems excited as he clambers down the halls (the boy is a bit gangly and awkward, Louis has noticed, but it suits him), though Louis can’t imagine why he would be. They walk for about thirty seconds when Louis realizes that they are not going to the rec room.

“Um – didn’t we pass i-“

Louis is interrupted by a short, swift “shh” from Harry’s mouth.

“We’re going to a different rec room. A better one.”

Louis doesn’t know what Harry is talking about, since he knows of only one recreation room in the entire building, but he doesn’t question it. After all, Harry’s been here a lot longer than he has.

Harry turns down a corner and Louis stumbles after him blindly, and he doesn’t know why he’s following this boy that he just met, for Goodness sakes; he could be insane and taking Louis to a sacrificial pit to murder him, but Louis feels an odd sort of trust with Harry. Maybe it’s because he’s seen him struggling to choke down a couple meatballs, which would probably be considered as one of the lower points of Louis’ life.

Finally Harry stops in front of a metal, unassuming door and gives Louis a smile. “This is the good rec room,” he says, and he reaches for the doorknob and gives it a twist.

When the door opens, Louis discovers that it is, in fact, a laundry room. A washer and a dryer are at the far end of the tiny room, but most of the room’s area is covered by twisting pipes and sharp bursts of steam that come from them every once in a while.

“This isn’t a rec room,” Louis points out, breathlessly, because there’s a spread of blankets nearly hidden by the pipes and there seems to be a Harry-shaped dent in them.

“I know,” Harry grumbles, walking inside the room and beckoning for Louis to do the same. “It’s my rec room. I come here when I get overwhelmed.”

Now that Louis is inside the room, he can see that it’s bigger than he originally thought. But it’s still quite small. “Are you allowed to do that?”

Harry snorts and bends down to sit on the pile of blankets, narrowly avoiding a pipe to the head as he sits. “They don’t care. They don’t even notice I’m gone.”

Louis shrugs and sits down next to Harry on the blankets, which are surprisingly comfortable and soft. Once he sits down he notices that the pipes have small, inconspicuous little carvings in them, but once he looks closer he notices that they spell out words.

He finds himself reaching out and tracing the carvings with his fingertips, and Harry coughs beside him.

“Oh, those are – um. When I, like, want to cut, I cut these instead. With an X-acto knife I keep hidden.”

Louis glances at Harry quickly and sees that he has a blush creeping on his cheeks. He smiles softly and turns back to the carvings, which spell out things like “Gemma” and “Anne.”

“I like them,” Louis compliments, and he doesn’t look, but he thinks Harry smiles.

***

Harry becomes Louis’ friend. Each day, when the bell rings at 12:00 and it’s time to go to lunch, Louis sits at that exact same table and saves a spot for Harry. Usually Harry ends up helping Louis get through lunch, but sometimes they talk about things. Technically they aren’t supposed to do that, but Louis doesn’t really give a shit.

And after lunch, they always head to the Laundry Room, and, true to Harry’s word, no one really seems to care. The rehab place that they are residing in isn’t the most expensive of places, so Louis supposes that they simply have too many people to look after; a tall, curly-headed boy and a short, scrawny boy don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.

They stay in the Laundry Room, just talking, which Louis finds is probably more therapeutic than talking to a glassy-eyed therapist with a ball-point pen in their hand, smile too big for their mouth and eyes clear of any ghosts.

“Gemma’s my sister,” Harry says when Louis asks about the name from the carving. “She, um, she was one of my best friends. And when she found out I cut she was like, really sad? Anyway. I think of her whenever I want to give up and it helps me.”

Louis points to the other name, Anne, and Harry smiles.

“That’s my mum. She was definitely my best friend.”

Louis nods and withdraws his hands from the carvings, sitting them in his lap and twisting his fingers together.

“What about your family?” Harry asks quietly, and Louis inhales sharply. There’s a long, heavy pause before he answers.

“I have five sisters and one brother, and my mum is a single mum, so she never really paid attention to me. My therapist says that’s part of the reason why I, um. You know.”

Harry nods solemnly.

“But, I still loved her, even though she didn’t really care about me, because she’s my mum, you know? And I knew why. She just had too many children, too many things to love and care for. So I understood why there wasn’t room to love me. I never really – I never blamed her for that. My therapist says that was wrong of her, but I understand it. I don’t think it was wrong at all. I got it, why would she choose to love me, when she has other normal, happy children? I understand, I understand -”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut and he feels Harry’s soft thumb on his cheek, wiping away the miniscule tear he hadn’t realized had fallen. He opens his eyes, only to see a ray of glittering, wide green light caught on his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Louis,” Harry whispers ever-so quietly, slowly taking his fingers away from Louis’ cheek after a lingering touch.

Louis sucks in a breath and shook his head. “No, don’t say sorry, it wasn’t – it wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

“Don’t say that,” Harry says sharply, and Louis widens his eyes. “Don’t – it wasn’t your fault. Anorexia isn’t anybody’s fault.”

Harry turns away, his eyes hardened and shelled, turning in on themselves so they don’t have to meet anything. Louis looks over at his curled-in frame and frowns.

“Why did you cut?”

He winces immediately after. Controlling his mouth was something he and his therapist were working on. He shuts his eyes, preparing for the sharp intake of breath and angry demand to never ask again, but instead he hears a sigh and a mumbled answer.

“Reasons. My parents would fight a lot and it gave me something to focus on besides all the shit in my head. Mostly because I hate myself.”

Louis opens his eyes and looks at Harry, reaching out to lightly rest his fingers on his pale arm. “I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause. “But you’re getting better, right?”

Harry shrugs and taps out a beat on his damaged wrist with his spindly fingers. “Mostly. You’re getting better too, right?”

Louis smiles. “Mostly.”

***

Over the next few weeks, Louis does get considerably better. His therapist says, at each of his daily hour-long therapy sessions, that he’s finally realizing food isn’t something to be afraid of, something to embrace and accept as part of life. Louis’ slowly adjusting to having food nearly constantly in his stomach and since he’s well-fed now, he feels hungry at times and actually craves food.

When he heads to lunch at 12:00, he sits down at his routine spot and waits patiently for Harry to stroll awkwardly into the cafeteria like he always does. While he’s waiting he even manages to chew down a couple bites of the macaroni and cheese they’re serving.

Louis waits fifteen minutes, and still, Harry is a no-show. Louis glances at the clock anxiously. All patients must be in the cafeteria by now. It’s a rule pretty much set in stone.

When Louis is swallowing a particularly greasy bite of cheesy noodles that feels like sludge going down his throat, the thought occurs to him that Harry is probably in the laundry room. Nerves now calmed (at least a little bit), he finishes his lunch, throws a quick thumbs-up to the supervisor stalking around in the back, and heads out of the cafeteria doors.

Louis’ been to the laundry room dozens of times by now, so he knows the way like the back of his hand. On the way he nearly gets caught by a few wandering patients and makes a mental note to ask Harry how he gets here with such stealth

When he finally reaches the door and yanks it open with his thin arms (that is something that he and his therapist are also working on. Louis is not fat. Louis is skinny, skinny, skinny), a flood of relief crashes through his body when he sees Harry sitting in the middle of the pile of blankets, looking a bit tired and worn but pretty okay.

“Harry!” Louis exclaims, though he didn’t mean to shout because Harry doesn't like loud noises. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

Harry looks up at him, and he smiles, but it’s fake, Louis can tell. His eyes are red-rimmed and blotchy and his cheeks are looking a little more pale than usual, and red flags raise in Louis’ head. “Didn’t feel like going,” Harry mumbles, and Louis shakes his head.

“Are you okay?” Louis asks shakily while sitting down cross-kneed against the wall and next to Harry, putting his hands on Harry’s thigh. That’s something the two of them have been doing a lot lately, even though ‘physical contact between patients, in any way, shape, or form, is prohibited.’

“No,” Harry answers truthfully, and Louis feels a flicker of warmth in his gut because Harry doesn’t feel like he needs to lie to him. “Today’s just been a shit day,” Harry continues on, “and, I just, like… I had a nightmare last night, a really bad one, so I really didn’t want to be bothered by anyone today.”

Louis feels a twinge of disappointment and leans forward. “Oh. Do you not want me here?”

Harry’s wide eyes meet Louis’ and he shakes his head. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. I want you here, Louis, don’t worry.”

Louis smiles and leans back again, closing his eyes and listening to the gentle humming coming from the washing machine.

There’s a beat of silence before Harry inhales and says, “you’re my best friend here, you know. Maybe you’re even my best friend out of this place. Because, like – you just, you’re real? I mean, you don’t sugarcoat things, you don’t pretend shit. You’re just… honest. And that’s what someone like me needs, I guess. I don’t need a stupid therapist telling me that everything’s going to get better. I need a friend who knows what it feels like to – to, to struggle, to _not_ be okay.”

Louis started smiling right when Harry said he was his best friend and now there’s no stopping the brightness of the grin on his face. “Thank you, Harry. Really. You’re my best friend, too.”

Harry glances up and when he sees the happiness emanating from Louis’ eyes, he allows himself a small smile.

They sit in collective silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other’s company and the soft brushes of contact they manage to make through hands and skin and then, Louis asks a question.

“May I ask what the nightmare was about?”

Harry expels a quivering breath and runs a pale hand through his tall hair. “Um, it was – nothing. It was stupid.”

“No, really,” Louis says kindly, an encouraging smile cast on his lips. “Tell me.”

Harry stares at him for a few moments before replying. “It was about you. You got better and you left me here alone.”

And – that, that wasn’t what Louis was expecting. 

Harry immediately apologizes. “Sorry, sorry, was that too..? Sorry.”

Louis shakes his head and mumbles, “No, don’t be sorry. It’s okay. It’s just – wow. It’s kind of flattering.”

Harry smiles.

“And I wouldn’t leave you, you know,” Louis continues. “Not on purpose, at least. It might happen that I suddenly get better and get to go home, or get possibly worse and get whisked off to a mental lockdown place, I don’t know, and you don’t either. But I won’t leave on purpose. I won’t leave you.”

“Promise?” Harry asks, wide-eyed, hopeful and light and young.

“Promise,” Louis affirms, and without rhyme or reason, without cause or knowing or thinking of the consequences, he slips his hand into Harry’s. There’s a bit of a jolt on Harry’s part but then he relaxes, his hand molding to Louis’ like it was made to fit.

They sit there, clasping hands, listening to the humming of the washing machine and the soft beating of each other’s hearts.

***

A few weeks later, during one of Louis’ counseling sessions, his therapist tells him that he’s almost ready to go home.

“You’ve been doing so well, Louis,” she says, with a genuine smile and a look that could be classified as fond in her eyes. “And I, and everyone at this facility, is extremely proud of the progress you have made so far.”

“Thank you,” Louis says earnestly, and he doesn’t like to admit it, but he sort-of feels proud of himself.

“But on a more personal note, Louis, I am proud of you. You’ve come so far, honestly, and I believe that with a little more help, you are on your way to a full recovery.”

“Thank you,” Louis repeats. He pauses for a second before he asks, “Can I hug you?”

His therapist bursts into tears and stands up with her arms raised. “Of course you can, come here.”

They embrace and she tells him again of how proud she is, and Louis walks to lunch with an extra bounce in his step. It’s only when he gets to the lunchroom that Louis realizes –

_Harry._

He’s sitting at their table, looking as pallid and beautiful as ever, hair wild and tall like always and his thin fingers tracing patterns over his smooth ivory skin. Louis feels a tug on his heart and he thinks, no. I can’t go home yet.

He takes a deep breath and walks to the table as calmly as possible. When Harry sees him, his entire face lights up and there’s pain in Louis’ chest.

“Louis,” he greets.

Louis gives a weak smile that turns out looking like somewhat of a grimace and he sits down next to Harry stiffly.

“There’s… something we need to talk about,” Louis gets out through the grit of his teeth, and Harry waves it off.

“Later, in the laundry room. Today they have salmon for lunch!”

And so Harry goes with Louis to get a few strips of salmon and they sit together and Harry makes jokes, and with each passing second the guilt burrowed in Louis’ ribcage is growing. He practically shoves the salmon in his mouth, even though he knows he should be enjoying it, and reminds Harry to hurry up.

“Fine, Lou, God,” Harry chuckles, standing up to throw away his plate. Louis’ supervisor isn’t here today, because he’s been doing so well he doesn’t even need to be checked on anymore.

Louis takes Harry’s hand, not even caring about the rule, and drags him to the laundry room. Once they get inside they collapse onto the pile of blankets and Louis starts sobbing.

“I'm going home,” Louis chokes out quickly through his sobs, and he feels Harry sigh next to him. He doesn’t say anything though, just sits quiet and lets Louis’ tears run their course.

Eventually the waterworks run out and Louis wipes his nose, sniffing wetly.

Louis cringes. “Sorry. I wasn’t supposed to cry.”

Harry shakes his head. “’S fine.”

Louis waits a second before he speaks. It feels like he’s treading on thin ice. “I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head again. “No. You shouldn’t be sorry. You’ve gotten better, that’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Louis nods his head and sniffles. “But what about you?” he asks quietly, and Harry looks sad as he answers.

“I’ll be fine. Really, I will. I survived three months without you, I can survive three months more.”

Louis ignores the slight twinge of disappointment he feels at Harry’s words.

“I’ll miss you,” he dares to say, the weight of it already heavy in the room and he hopes this doesn’t scare Harry off or send him running to the hills.

Luckily, it seems to do the exact opposite. Harry looks at him for a moment before breaking out in a wrecked sob and reaching for Louis, clutching him close to his heart and burying his wet face in the crook of Louis’ neck.

“I’ll miss you so much,” Harry whispers, and Louis feels tears gather behind his eyes and he thinks, no, not again.

Louis pulls back and grips Harry’s shoulders. “Please stop crying, love, it’ll be okay-“

Louis is interrupted by Harry’s lips pressed to his.

He’s shocked at first, doesn’t know what to do, just is frozen and lifeless against Harry’s parted mouth. But then something inside him breaks and he’s born into life, and they kiss warmly over and over again like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do, Harry’s sweet lips insistently nudging at Louis’ and latching on like it’s the only living thing he’s got left.

Harry pulls away suddenly, his eyes bright and green and alive, worlds away from that beaten and indifferent boy Louis met ages ago in the lunchroom. “I’ve fallen in love with you Louis,” Harry states, bold and stripped bare, and Louis’ breaths slow. He can’t believe this is happening, that his best friend just kissed him in the middle of a goddamn laundry room and the fact that he doesn’t even seem surprised deep down, not really, because he knew all along that some part of him was completely and hopelessly gone for Harry.

“Falling is like flying, but with a more permanent destination,” he says in reply, and Harry’s expression changes into something more soft and thoughtful.

“What a sad thing to say,” he comments, and Louis shakes his head.

“On the contrary. I think it’s a lovely thing to say.”

And Harry smiles and they kiss again, and his breath feels like sunshine in the dimness of the laundry room and his big hands are soft and constant against Louis’ thighs and everything is wonderful.

“Can I suck you off?” Louis mumbles against Harry’s lips, and the tips of his fingers trace his silky knees.

Harry inhales too sharply. “Not — today” he says, his voice shy and blushing, and Louis smiles whilst pressing kisses down his unnaturally elongated neck. He digs his fingers into Harry’s hipbones.

"That's alright. I'm fine to just be with you."

And now Harry wears a smile to match Louis', both boys beaming with the adoration they feel. Louis doesn't even notice Harry's hands snaking down his own body to rest between his thighs.

"You can touch here though," he says quietly, shades of green growing darker in his eyes. "I'd like for you to kiss me there."

Louis swallows. “Sure?” he asks, and Harry nods feverishly.

“Yes, Louis, please.”

Louis laughs breathily and slides down to blow warm air onto the smooth skin right above Harry’s knee. He inches the gown covering Harry's pale-marble legs upwards. Once the hem of the gown is sitting by his stomach, Louis runs his fingers over the expanse of milky-white skin covering the muscles of Harry’s thighs. He glances up at Harry once more for confirmation before latching onto the softest skin he's ever felt in his life. Above him, Harry keeps letting out tiny, sweet-sounding kitten mewls that make Louis giggle. 

"You okay?" he asks, lifting his head up to meet Harry's eyes.

Harry smiles softly. Fondly. "Yes. I'm okay."

Eventually Louis makes Harry come just by sucking on his thighs (how, Louis will never understand) and Harry does the same for Louis in return. They wind up curled around each other, exhausted hearts synced together and hands entwined.

“You’re really beautiful, Harry," Louis comments after another washing cycle next to them has started. "I know you don't think anything good I say about you is true, but I'm starting to see something in your eyes. I think you're almost there."

Harry blushes and droops his head onto Louis' shoulder, quiet. Louis presses a small kiss to his forehead and they sit in silence, content to just be next to one another. Together, solid, real.

***

The morning comes and as soon as Louis wakes up, the first thing he does is cry.

Today’s the day he’ll be going home. He’ll see his sisters and his mum and his stepdad, and the twins will shower him in affection and demand his attention, and Fizzy will jump onto his back in an eager request for a piggy-back ride, and Lottie will be reluctant to hug him at first, like the teenager she is, but eventually she’ll crumble and grasp him tightly and whisper “missed you.” He’ll be able to hold the newly-one-year-old twins Doris and Ernie in his arms and see how big they’ve gotten in his absence.

He’ll hug his mum and she’ll tell him she’s proud of him and her eyes won’t be so clouded with disappointment. They’ll have Louis’ favorite dinner and maybe watch a film after and then Louis’ll head to his childhood bed, familiar and cozy and everything he’s missed since he came here.

Today’s also the day he’ll be leaving Harry.

Harry, the boy with the curls. Harry, the boy with the wide green eyes and the simple-sweet tongue and the genuine expressions of wonder he’s been making so often lately. Harry, the boy who somehow managed to worm his way into Louis’ damaged heart and find a home there, sewing up the bleeding lines with his careful fingers and practiced hands.

Harry, the boy who Louis loves. Harry, the boy who he may quite possibly never see again.

With a heavy heart, begins to take everything from his room and stuff it into the rucksack he brought with him, and when everything is packed and away, the room looks jarringly empty and maybe a bit sad.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in one long, clean sigh, as if he was smoking the stuffy air here. He opens the door and leaves the room, leaves his pain and his problems and his dirty thoughts lying lonely in the room, hidden in the floorboards and under the windowsill.

And, maybe, when he walks out of the room with his belongings on his back, he feels refreshed, like he’s getting a new start.

His supervisor is waiting for him outside the door, and she looks at him with a glint of pride in her eyes. Louis doesn’t like to admit it, but all this being-proud-of-him floating around everywhere lately has him feeling like he almost has a purpose in life besides refusing to eat and shoving his fingers down his throat.

“Ready to go home, Louis?” the supervisor asks kindly, holding out her hand for Louis to take.

Louis nods and reaches out to take her hand, and then he hears the clicking of a doorknob.

He turns around and watches as a door opens at the end of the hallway. Harry emerges, looking clean and pale and maybe a bit lost, and Louis feels an ache in his heart. Last night, in tandem with the buzz of the washing machine, they’d discussed the details of meeting again.

_“I live in Chesire. Holmes Chapel. Promise me you’ll visit, someday.” Harry had muttered whilst tapping out a rhythm against Louis’ wrist._

_Louis sighed and ran a hand through Harry’s hair. “I will. Promise me you’ll get better.”_

_Harry looked up, his eyes a bit shiny and love and adoration pouring out through the corners._

_“I promise.”_

Louis smiles to himself and he knows, in his heart, that they’ll see each other again. He just knows.

So he lifts up his arm and waves softly, mouthing “I’ll see you soon.”

And even from this far away, he can see the corners of Harry’s mouth quirk up. He waves back and Louis grins.

“Louis?” the supervisor repeats, and he turns to her.

“Yeah,” he says, reaching for her hand and turning his back to the life he’d lived before, the life without happiness and hope and love. “I’m ready to go home.”

~

**Author's Note:**

> “Falling is like flying, but with a more permanent destination.” –Jim Moriarty (BBC Sherlock)
> 
> The Picasso painting is called “The Old Guitarist” if you’re interested, and I don't know what it's doing in a museum in Doncaster but this is fiction so i can do whatever i PLEASE
> 
> my tumblr is winterlouie if you’d like to stop by sometime. 
> 
> (update : there's a part two to this now!!)


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